


The Rabbit Hole

by kuro49



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Captivity, DCU Rarepair Exchange 2020 Treat, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: Deathstroke doesn't expect Superman to come to his rescue.But then again, it isn't like Superman expects his rescue to entail any of what he's actually doing.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43
Collections: DCU Rarepair Exchange 2020





	The Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> a treat for my fellow superstroke friends ;)
> 
> all the thank yous to stevieraebarnes who made this fic so much better than it was with their read through, ilu <333

Superman is damage control for the most part.

Or, that's the conclusion Clark Kent comes to as he is flying back to Metropolis from another site of devastation. He's seen so much worse but the thing is he shouldn't have to. With his speed and his strength and the culmination of all of his abilities, he should not be the right to come after the wrong _tears_ through it. He wants to prevent death and destruction well before they occur, righting the wrongs before the wrongs ever even become an ideation.

Clark is pretty sure there are some choice ethical debates surrounding a topic like this, but it doesn't feel right given all of the things he’s supposed to be able to do.

He is only good after the fact, and that _can't_ be enough.

And he is ruminating around this same thought when his attention is drawn to the void that he passes over. With his head in both the literal and metaphorical clouds, Superman would've missed it all together if he wasn't going so slow overhead this isolated stretch of sprawling private land. A quick glance down and it is a simple industrial complex as inconspicuous as all the other ones it sits nestled in between, except.

This one is encased in lead beyond the very first level.

Despite all of Bruce's best efforts, Clark has never been a suspicious person but he cannot be who he is without a little bit of concern. With the way things are, he'll be lucky if he doesn't have to call for reinforcements. He's been through this enough times to have a pretty good idea of what this entails. It's always the worst kind of trouble to be found when one least expects it. 

Superman flies down in absolute silence.

The compound reeks of experimental drugs even when it is clean and mostly empty.

Expected of a regular Saturday morning somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, Clark supposes.

There is a skeleton crew for security sitting in the control room on the first floor above ground, some cleaners on the east end of the building, and then a room that feels too centralized to all of the sub-basement laboratories to not hold some kind of significance to it all. This room is surrounded by lead, and that’s important too. It has to with the way it feels so _wrong_ even if Clark isn't considering all of the other glaring red flags already being waved.

Superman is in overdrive as he bypasses all the cameras and the motion detectors to come face to face with this room. He cannot see beyond the face of the door and its lock. He cannot tell how far this goes. It can be a rabbit hole for all he knows.

He reaches out, hand on the knob, and the last thought to come wandering in his mind is if he should’ve knocked first.

"Huh."

They are looking at each other and they both look a bit dumbfounded when they register who is on the other side of the thick lead door as it comes tearing away like wet tissue paper in Superman's grip.

"Didn't expect it to be _you_." Deathstroke murmurs from where he is lying curled up in the center of the barren room.

The only other thing within the cell, and that’s what this is even if no one calls it that, is a bucket sitting two feet from where Deathstroke is, and its purpose is more than clear when there isn't even a drain in the floor. 

Superman scans every corner looking for a trap, seeking out red sun lamps or a ring of kryptonite where there is none. It is only then that he takes stock of the state Deathstroke is in, and it's far worse than Clark initially thought. 

Because Deathstroke is entirely naked.

He is also chained to the concrete floor at his ankles and his wrists. The shackles are heavy duty, thick and cumbersome, looking like they’ve dug into skin frequently enough that Clark can make note of the deep tissue bruising and the flecks of dried blood where the edges of the reinforced cuffs cut in. As Deathstroke drops his head back down to the floor at the silence, he moves just enough for the loose messy array of silver strands to fall away, exposing the metal collar around his neck and the short chain leading from it to end bolted to the floor.

Clark blinks at how low tech it all is.

And then he sees what is odd, what he couldn't quite put a finger on when he first saw the shackles: The metal is thick, is welded together in place of a lock and key. 

Clark is hardly a stranger to the horrors that people are capable of.

He just wishes he could be surprised when Deathstroke tells him what he is here for, detailing the more unconventional methods they have developed just for him. And it would be impressive, really, given the sheer amount of work that it took for them to get to this point in their trial and error, not only to have Deathstroke here but to keep him exactly where they want him.

"Reverse engineering, they called it. They wanted a way to replicate what made me Deathstroke."

Clark has been working to remove the chains the entire time. Deathstroke has stayed still, near docile as he does. His eye is half lidded and it is worrying enough that Clark stops all together. His hands pausing where he is about to take off the metal band at Deathstroke's throat. 

"What's wrong with you?" Clark asks, tips of his fingers barely inches from the man's neck.

"Hmm…?"

"Your body temperature is too high. Your pulse is abnormal even for a meta. Your heart is racing. You're sweating but you're shivering too." Clark doesn't like to sound so clipped or short but he doesn't like to be concerned for the well being of the kind of people that Deathstroke is. He doesn't even need to glance through half of the files Bruce has put together for the League under Deathstroke's name to know the kind of villainy this man is capable of. "Do you want me to keep going?"

Deathstroke blinks like he's only beginning to register all of what Clark said. A beat too slow, a few seconds too long.

Clark waits because he has no starting point to even _begin_ to wonder what can be wrong.

"I think they put something either in the water or the food." Deathstroke says, his voice is leveled, is calm. And if Superman couldn't hear the way his heart is beating double time, he might even think nothing is wrong at all. But Deathstroke keeps going: "'cause then they put this in me. Said something about how at least a sweet tight cunt is worth taking the time to prep." 

Clark doesn't get a chance to blink as the meaning of what Deathstroke just said sinks in. 

Because Deathstroke shifts where he is sprawled against the floor, his thighs dropping open to each side for Superman to see everything. And there's nothing to hide the obscenely pink sex toy buried to the hilt inside of his ass, spreading him open.

"It's not even on vibrate."

The only consolation Clark can take from this is that, unlike Bruce, his saviour complex hasn't made him bring home enough kids to form a little league of his own.

He is trying to convince Deathstroke— Call me _Slade_ , I know Bats' got a file on me that he made all of you suckers read— that there must be something else he could do to help that didn't need him to, well, _fuck_ him.

"If it's consent you're worried about, boy scout, just think of this as taking one for the team." 

Slade is still on the ground except he is shameless now, and it's so much worse than Clark thought because he isn't even just lying there. No, Slade is making full use of his freed hands to reach between his legs to grip the base of the toy, groaning out loud without any hint of embarrassment while he fucks himself with it.

Clark is standing next to him, trying his hardest not to watch. But the sounds the toy makes in Slade's hands are both slick and lewd, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination when it squelches so obscenely as it is pulled out just to be shoved right back into the tight hot clutch of Slade's hole still clamping down on it.

"I didn't take you for someone who likes begging." Slade is panting now. "But I'm far too gone to care, I can beg if that's what you want."

And Clark is pretty sure his own heartbeat matches the mercenary too. A beat too quick, each one hard and fast like a jack rabbit's would.

"I don't want that, Dea—"

Slade goes quiet enough that Clark risks a chance to look at him. 

The man is still on his back, legs spread wide open in invitation but he's stopped with the toy. The man is simply staring up at him with his one good eye. The blue is a thin ring, his pupil is blown dark and wide with the drugs in his system, and Clark figures Slade has probably never learned to pull his punches. So, of course, the man isn't about to start now. 

"Being a hero is about making the hard choices, isn't it?" His voice isn't leveled or calm, not anymore. It's strained as Slade asks his follow up question: "So, what kind of choices are you prepared to make, Superman?"

"Man of _Steel_ indeed."

Slade lets out on a low whistle as Clark pulls himself out from his suit. They have no idea what is really in Slade's system, no references as to the dosage or the side effects. The only thing they do know is that the toy Slade's got in him is so far from what he really needs. 

"No commentary allowed," Clark tells him with a scowl.

"Then maybe you should fuck me already."

Slade's smirk only stretches wider when Superman gets between his thighs and takes the toy from his hands. Slade would've laughed at the sound the bubblegum pink dildo makes as it ricochets off the wall where Superman tosses it if he wasn't entirely consumed by the sensation of the three thick fingers pressing inside of him in exchange. Slade tosses his head back on a loud exhale out.

"Love that you’re into it but I don't need more prep, boy scout." Slade bites out between the hard clench of his jaw, swallowing hard as the pads of those fingers work roughly across his prostate. There is a sound to come out of him, and it's more of a whimper and a keen than anything else. He would be embarrassed if he's thinking of anything else but all he knows is that claw of desperation for more and more and more as his body throbs around Superman's fingers. "I’d really like it if you can put it _in_ already."

Superman doesn't ask him to beg but Slade does it nonetheless.

And it makes an ugly unfamiliar part of Clark himself come alive at the rasp of what might be _please_ breaking out between the lips of a man like Deathstroke.

Slade whines as Clark withdraws his fingers, and he sounds entirely at a loss without something to fill him up.

"Be good, and I'll give you exactly what you need," Clark says, and he has no idea where this authority in his voice comes from. One hand around the base of his cock, and he's already hard as he says: “ _Slade_.”

The only thing he registers is the way Deathstroke practically shivers as each word sinks in.

He nudges the blunt head of his cock to Slade's rim where he is already a little puffy and bright red from how rough he was with the toy on himself. Clark takes another moment to marvel at the heat radiating from Slade's body as he rubs the length of his cock over his hole, drags his precum down along the shaft, feels the eager tilt of Slade's hips in an attempt to take Clark inside of him.

"Good," Clark murmurs, his other hand splaying at the junction where Slade's thigh meets his groin. He digs his thumb in, pulling Slade's rim apart so it's easier on that first breach of his hole.

"Fuck," Slade lets out as he feels himself stretch to accommodate the girth of him, and then the full length slowly filling him up. "Y-yeah," he groans at each inch that slides inside, "good," he goes echoing Clark's own vocabulary as the man spreads him open so much deeper than the toy could, " _God_."

Fully seated inside of Slade, Clark has to stop, holding still as he feels the tight grip and the flutter of Slade's muscles clamping down on him. It's a room kept cool but they are both dripping sweat. Clark can taste salt as he drags his tongue across his bottom lip, his mouth dry as he goes to say: "Let me know when I'm good to move." 

Slade nods before Clark can even finish his sentence. 

With all the weight to go resting upon his shoulders, his spine arches, and he comes on the first thrust.

Slade comes splattering white over his stomach and his chest, head tossing back violently as he does. And if there is anything normal about this, Slade might even be embarrassed. Except the only thing he can focus on is how hard his first orgasm hits, his fingers gouging scratches into the concrete floor while his toes curl at the intensity.

Clark keeps still for him as Slade comes down from his orgasm.

Like a perfect fucking gentleman as he waits on Slade to catch his breath, feeling the shudder wrack through him as he does.

"More," Slade rasps out when he is finally coherent, and Clark isn't about to make him say it twice. And that too is entirely too kind of him.

Clark swipes two fingers through Slade's release, rubs the mess over his cock before pushing in once more. The excess cum helps ease the slide, and Slade seems to feel it too. He pulls back halfway, driving in at the same slow pace. The noises that echo inside of this room lined all in lead makes for a symphony when he can feel exactly how Slade goes tight all around him, body squeezing down like a vice.

He holds Slade by the waist, one arm wrapping around him to pull him close. Sitting him up so he isn't rutting into him against the concrete floor. Clark settles his other hand high up on Slade's outer thigh so he can keep him still as he begins to roll his hips upwards, fucking hard and fucking deep into Slade's pliant hole, driving into him like he needs it just as badly as Slade does.

It surprises himself, but then again it seems like this last little succession of decisions have all been quite the surprise.

Superman isn’t sure he wants to figure any of this out when Slade shifts within the breadth of his secure hold.

For ease. Or maybe just for a lack of anything else to do with his hands. Whatever the case may be, Slade wraps his arms around Superman's neck.

And Clark, he lets him.

"You don't fuck like you're a super."

Slade points out once he's come twice on Superman's cock and he is finally over that initial burning need to be filled up.

At some point, Superman has been fucking him about two feet off from the ground. He is secured where he is, legs locked around Superman's hips, his arms still draped over Superman's shoulders while his scruffy cheek bumps against the shell of Superman's ear each time he moves him up and down on his cock. If the cape is made of a material any less durable, Slade is pretty sure he would've torn it to shreds at this point.

Superman moves his head so Slade can actually catch the raise of a brow.

Slade explains himself: "You fuck like you'd actually like the missionary position if there was a bed in this room."

"Is that a complaint?" Superman isn't a particularly stoic man, and it's easy to see how he simply looks amused by the assessment.

Slade isn't sure what this means but he definitely isn't complaining when he's pretty sure he is going to need a couple more rounds out of this man who can actually keep up. He doesn't hold back, simply makes a long breathy sound when Superman moves him into that perfect position where each time the man bottoms out, he is grinding right into the deepest part of him.

"No, not at all. Not if you keep this up." He tells him, and for once, he isn't even lying from between his teeth.

Superman laughs faintly, and with a few quick thrusts, Slade is swearing colourfully through another orgasm that wracks through his entire frame.

It is only a long while after that he realizes he is coming dry.

They aren't keeping count, and it is probably better if they don't. Slade barely has a refractory period on a good day and he isn't about to ask but he's pretty sure Superman's got him beat, easily. Slade feels it inside of him where he is all wet and warm and leaking semen down around Superman's cock to drip to the concrete floor below them. He focuses on the sensation, that dissipating sense of urgency, and tries to think of the victory to come from just that.

"Don't go after them." Superman starts when he can see clarity in Slade's eye again.

His answer comes, just as quick, just as deliberate: "You know that's not possible."

Neither one of them looks to the pile of tangled chains and metal cuffs torn open with brute strength sitting strewn in one corner of this same room. Superman isn't stupid, he knows he is asking for the impossible before the words even come out of his mouth. Reason when faced with Deathstroke never really ends with anyone's desired effects, not even Deathstroke's own. Superman's grip on him is tight, holding him still, but it doesn't hurt even if the man can make it _hurt_.

Pain is not new, not even to Slade within just this room. But he can appreciate the fact that Superman is always going to try even when requesting the impossible.

Slade can give him that at the very least, call it a _thank you_ if one may. "I'll be taking care of every last one of them."

"That's what I'm worried about," Superman tells him, and there's a furrow between his brows. The handsome bow of his mouth turning down into a grimace, probably recalling a few of Deathstroke's more gruesome jobs he's read in his files.

"Tell you what," Slade smiles, and it's wicked sharp, "fuck me good one more time and I'll make it quick on all of them."

It's as good of a deal as Slade's about to make it. It's him trying even when he doesn't have to. Because this here is not a need. It's a want. It's really more of a wish when it comes out the way it does, worded just like _that_. 

It's also a bit of a surprise when Superman takes him up on it.


End file.
